by Blake Pierce
“Everything all right?” Pascal asked, shooting a look toward Adele.
“Fine, fine. Just higher-ups causing headaches.”
“Ah, yes. I understand. As it often is, heh?” She smiled, winking at Adele.
Despite herself, her own lips curled and Adele found herself growing even more fond of the broad-faced Spaniard. She didn’t doubt that Serra Pascal’s own supervisors were likely looking very closely over her shoulder as well. They had no real leads on the killer. The landlady’s description had been tenuous at best. An approximate height, a common hair color, and a non-physical mannerism. They would have to put an APB out to the best of their ability, but Adele wasn’t holding her breath. Not only that, the man in question hadn’t even provided his real name to the owner of the hostel. She’d marked him down simply as Tenant Two in her ledger.
No name, no description, three victims—this man was on a rampage and Adele was falling further behind.
As these bleak thoughts cast her countenance in darkness, Adele’s gaze darted toward the door, which was being pushed open by a woman in a blue uniform. She pressed a hand to the radio on her shoulder and then brusquely guided a young man through the door.
The fellow in question had a square face and a very thick, dark beard that didn’t quite fit the youthfulness of his features.
He stepped tentatively into the cafe, rubbing one arm in a nervous gesture, wearing casual jeans and a ratty T-shirt.
“Hello,” Adele said quickly, rising to her feet along with Agent Pascal. “Mr. Icardi?”
The man hesitated, swallowed, then nodded once.
“Do you know why you’re here?” Adele said, gesturing quickly toward the empty chair across from where the agents sat.
After Pascal translated, the brother of the victim inhaled for a moment, then puffed a long breath. He nodded once.
Pascal translated, “He knows his brother is dead.”
Adele watched the young man’s expression as he approached. He looked shell-shocked more than anything, the pallor of his face not quite matching the sun-kissed hue of his arms. His hair was disheveled, like his shirt, and his hands kept tapping wildly against his thigh, drumming some complicated rhythm, which, every now and then, even included a snap of his fingers or a pat of his hand.
Adele pointed toward his fingers. “Are you a musician?”
“Drummer,” Pascal translated.
The young man let out a long sigh as he settled in the empty seat, glancing blearily around the cafe as if he were certain he’d found himself trapped in a dream. After a moment, his drumming fingers found the table, then his leg again, quieter but still insistently tapping.
Adele ignored this, also sitting again and facing the young man. She arranged her features into as gentle an estimation as she could manage.
“I’m very, very sorry for your loss,” she said softly.
The young man hesitated. Once Pascal spoke, he sighed and nodded. He paused, then said something else. Pascal replied, pointing through the cafe door in the direction of the small hostel down the street. She continued and the only phrase Adele managed to translate for herself was “…second floor…” and “…sorry…”
The young man, whom Pascal had called Giam Icardi, kept tapping his fingers. He muttered a few half-stuttered comments between the motions of his hands. At the end he just shrugged and sighed, staring at the table as if searching for something etched in the lacquer.
Pascal nodded her gratitude once he’d finished speaking and looked to Adele. “He says he was supposed to meet his brother not far from here. He says it is their family tradition to walk the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage.”
“The what?” Adele said.
Pascal’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t know? The Way of St. James in English, I believe.”
Adele hesitated, wracking her brain, but then shook her head. “No… No, I’m sorry, what is it?”
Pascal folded her arms, nodding. “I see. Well, the Camino de Santiago is a network of pilgrimages that cross through Spain—it takes eight to ten hours driving. But you’re not supposed to drive. Eventually, the way leads to the shrine of the apostle Saint James the Great in Galicia at the cathedral of Santiago de Compestalo.”
“I… All right. That’s in Northern Spain?”
“Northwest, but yes.”
“And he was walking the pilgrimage with his brother?”
Pascal said something in Spanish and Giam just nodded.
“I see,” said Adele. “As a family tradition?”
Pascal nodded, her eyes carrying a soft sort of sadness. “Giam thought it would be fun to do with his brother. He never thought anything like this would happen. He says he doesn’t know who would have hurt his brother. Who could have.”
“Did Matthew have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”
Pascal repeated the question, but Giam shook his head emphatically. After a second, though, he paused and, in a sheepish tone, muttered beneath his breath.
Pascal nodded, patting the table with her hand, not quite touching Giam but gesturing toward him. She said to Adele, “No one like that. Though, he did say Matthew could be a bit obnoxious at times. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he could be nosy. Maybe that annoyed someone.”
Adele sighed, gathering her thoughts.
Pascal, though, added a final thought. “You know, the plenary indulgence is a big motivator for the pilgrimage.”
“The what?”
“An indulgence,” said Pascal patiently. “The faith holds that those who travel the pilgrimage to its completion, not driving mind you, but travel the full way are pardoned of their sins.”
“Like all their sins?” said Adele, eyebrows rising. She glanced toward Giam, wondering what sort of things Matthew and his brother might have wanted to clean their consciences of. Adele had never considered herself a particularly religious person. Her old mentor, Robert Henry, had been a man of faith, though, so she wasn’t unfamiliar with some of the more characteristic activities involved.
Still, she’d never heard of the Camino de Santiago before… Certainly a religious overtone to all of this, now. The first victim had been a priest, the third victim was making a religious journey, and the second victim? She paused. She’d been found not far from an old abbey, but then again, Spain was filled with such sites.
Adele hissed through her teeth until they hurt. She nodded toward Giam and said, “Thank you for your time,” before regaining her feet and moving toward where John had watched the whole exchange without so much as a comment.
As she walked away, listening to Pascal console Giam in his own language, Adele’s thoughts were elsewhere. Were the religious overtones coincidental? Seemed a stretch.
John grunted as she drew near, peering out the window into the nighttime streets. He gave her a hopeful look. “Sleep?” he murmured.
Adele paused, but then shook her head. “Not yet. I—I need to look a few things up. But I think we might have a lead. A usable one this time.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Adele’s head hung low, her blonde hair drifting toward the keyboard as she leaned in, reading the small, cramped text back in the lobby of their hotel.
John was doing his best to stay awake, sitting across from her in the small hotel waiting room. A steaming cup of coffee sat next to him which he’d barely touched; yawning now, he leaned his head against his arm as he watched her across the table.
For a moment, as his big, brown eyes peered at her, Adele resisted an urge to smile. He looked a bit like a puppy, with his head curled up, watching her.
She reached across the table, patting the tall Frenchman on his large arm before returning her attention to her laptop.
“Anything?” John murmured. “Before I start sleepwalking?”
Adele hesitated. “I… You put that APB out yet?”
John snorted. “Pascal handled it. But what do you expect? Medium-height brown-haired men in Spain? They’re going to pull every car over
.”
“Traveling alone,” Adele said, quickly. “That’s not nothing.” She hesitated, rereading the article on her computer. “It’s odd,” she said, carefully. “You know where Father Fernando was killed?”
“The commune.”
“Well… Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is considered a starting point for the ‘French Way’ of making the pilgrimage.”
“French do this pilgrimage too?” John groaned. “That’s another load of suspects.”
“Yes, well… What if our killer is doing the pilgrimage also?”
John perked up and Adele leaned back in her chair, a satisfied look on her face.
“A murder pilgrim?” John murmured. “That might explain the connection. It isn’t the victims themselves. It’s where they are.”
“Murder pilgrim?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Not sure you should go throwing that cute little nickname around.”
John shrugged, yawning again. “Sometimes my creative genius just strikes. I’m a victim of my own muse.”
Adele rolled her eyes emphatically, but gave a little snort of laughter. “The only problem,” she said, her tone sobering, “is the distance between the crime scenes. If the killer is doing the pilgrimage, he can’t possibly move that fast on foot. But you’re not allowed to use a car.”
“Maybe he’s not doing the pilgrimage. Maybe he’s just hunting pilgrims.”
“It’s possible,” she said, hesitantly. “The killer is moving too slowly to be doing it by car. But far too fast to be doing it on foot. I’ve been reading about the plenary indulgences too. And it’s troubling.”
John stared at her with bleary eyes, poking a large finger at his cup of coffee which was slowly going cold. “What about them?”
“I can’t help but wonder what sort of person would need that kind of absolution. Someone very devout? Or maybe someone who knows they’ve done terrible things,” Adele said, quietly.
John snorted. “In the case of our killer, that seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?”
Adele stared at him. She reached out, slowly lowering the lid of her computer. The stench of stale coffee hung over the hotel lobby. The clerk behind the desk had even gone, retreating into a back room. A little bell with a triangular placard read, Ring for service.
The two agents were alone in the small Spanish hotel. But there, Adele could feel something in her stomach twisting. She thought of a small man with a dull eye, thought of the pain he had inflicted. Thought of what he had done to her mother.
If he completed the pilgrimage, would he be absolved of everything? Of all the pain he had caused? Of all the people he had killed?
“What are you thinking?” John said, a bit more alert now, watching her.
“Is it fair for everyone to get absolved?”
John shrugged his shoulder. “I don’t know about fair. Probably not up to me to make that call.”
Adele shook her head. This answer wasn’t satisfying. Some people were monsters. They deserved to be punished.
John, seemingly sensing they were getting off track, yawned again and crossed his arms behind his head in a posture of pure contentment. Still half yawning, he began his sentence, mouth wide, “All of this ends at some cathedral, yes?”
“At the shrine to St. James, and the cathedral,” Adele said. “Yes. If our killer is doing the pilgrimage, eventually he will end up there”
“We could station out, wait for him to come to us.”
“That could take days, weeks, depending on how fast he continues. Besides, if we wait for him to come to us, he’ll leave a trail of bodies behind him.”
Adele closed her eyes, thinking, but keeping quiet. One thing was for sure, she didn’t want the killer to get to the cathedral. Petty, perhaps. Superstitious, maybe. But she didn’t want him there. If she was right, if he had killed three people, maybe others they hadn’t even heard about, then the last thing she felt a man like that deserved was absolution. She thought of Robert, of her mother, of the countless others. Their eyes often haunted her dreams. She couldn’t do anything to bring them back. But the guilt of their passing wasn’t something that could just be wiped away with a hike through the countryside. It wasn’t something that could be brushed away.
No. She didn’t want to wait for him at the cathedral. She wanted to catch him before. Before he could kill again. Before he could reach his destination.
***
Adele yawned for the second time in as many minutes, standing across from Agent Pascal as their Spanish correspondent typed into her phone and then muttered, “The APB has been adjusted. They’ll be keeping an eye on the pilgrimage routes.”
The three of them had reconvened in the hotel lobby. John looked better rested than Adele. She had stayed up another few hours, going over different routes through Northern Spain.
Now, standing in the lobby across from John and Pascal, Adele yawned again, trying to think straight. “Pascal,” she said, “I was wondering if I could ask you something.”
The Spanish agent nodded politely.
“Last night, I was going through the different routes our killer might be traveling. If he started at the commune, on the French Way, then he’s been making quick time. Three days later he was in Santo Domingo de Silos. How could he be traveling that fast? It’s not a car. If he’d been traveling by car, he could’ve done the whole thing in ten hours.”
Agent Pascal smiled and patted the smaller woman on the shoulder. She turned toward the sliding glass doors, gesturing out at the sunlight, and said, “The pilgrimage is meant to be taken place under the sun. Without motorized vehicles. But that doesn’t mean everyone plays exactly by the book. It isn’t exactly forbidden, though sometimes frowned upon, but people use other means of transportation.”
Adele hesitated. “What means?”
Pascal looked back, shrugging. “Nothing motorized. No vehicles. But maybe a cart. I’ve heard of someone doing it on a horse. Though, that one is disputed. And also, a lot of people do it by bike.”
Adele smoothed her wrinkled suit. She had slept in her outfit, and hadn’t woken up for her usual morning run. Which meant, inevitably, she was going to feel cranky throughout the day.
“Bike,” John said. “That would account for the fast pace of travel, but not as fast as a car,” he said. “Plus that would also mean our killer really is doing the pilgrim’s travel.”
Adele nodded slowly. It made sense. She could feel her excitement climbing. “All right,” she said, “can we add that to the APB? Have them keep an eye out for cyclists in particular, who match the description the landlady gave us. Another thing,” Adele continued, “last night he was here. If he really is traveling by bike, he probably got some sleep, but he’s not going to be going much faster than fifteen or twenty-five kilometers per hour. Not over the long haul.”
“True,” said Pascal. “What would you like me to do with that?”
“That means, by this afternoon, he’s not going to be able to get any further than Lugo.”
John and Pascal both looked at her, impressed.
“I did the math twice,” Adele explained. “Which means we need to notify businesses, hostels, restaurants, anything in the area. Give them a description of our guy, and keep an eye out for a biker. On top of that, we should send police to the area.”
“On it,” Pascal said.
John, yawning and stretching, said, “I take it that means we’re headed to Lugo as well?”
Adele didn’t even bother replying. They obviously had to cut the killer off before he got any further. If they reached Lugo before he did, they would be able to set a trap and spring it when he came pedaling through. Now, it was their turn to catch an unsuspecting target by surprise.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The man had a name, he just didn’t like sharing it with people who were beneath the Lord’s wisdom. A name was a powerful thing. The Messiah, once upon a time, had hidden his identity for years.
The father’s was a noble cause. The man pedaled, h
is legs straining, his brow sweaty beneath the rising sun in the early morning. He didn’t smile. Part of him wanted to. But another part of him balked at the trap of pleasure. The promises of this world could so easily ensnare the mind.
He continued pedaling. Last night had been unfortunate. He hadn’t wanted to do that to Matthew. But the glutton deserved it.
He picked up the pace, catching a downward slope and riding it hastily toward the traffic lights at the bottom of the street; he could feel the wind against his face, cool and calming. Could feel the way his hair whipped about him. He would need to comb it when he stopped. There was no excuse for a shoddy appearance. His handkerchief still clutched against the handlebars.
He was so close. So very close. He would reach the cathedral tomorrow. The absolution would clean him completely. Now, he couldn’t hold back the smile. He’d come so far, gone so long for this. As he flew down the hill, his mind on tomorrow’s destination, a distant memory came fluttering back.
A loud voice shouted in a dormitory. Someone grabbed his leg, dragging him off the bed. Someone beat him. He winced as the memory played. He had known, from a very young age something in him had been wrong. The good Lord would cure it, though. He had spent his whole life trying to do the right thing. Gearing up for this very moment. St. James was watching. And soon, at the great man’s burial site, things would be put right once more.
He pedaled a bit faster, determinedly fixated on the coming terrain as he sped down the hill, toward the traffic lights. Green lights ahead. Sometimes, the Lord just made a way. Around him, small, single-story buildings. Ahead of him, a crosswalk, with one pedestrian already reaching the sidewalk. Time seemed to go still as he reached the intersection at a breakneck pace.
As he sped through, beneath the green light, he heard a sudden screech of tires and looked sharply up, distracted from his memories.
A truck had run the red light, pulling toward him, having slammed on the brakes and spinning to the side. The back of the truck came careening toward his bicycle. He cursed, jerking to the side—his wheels twisted, and he toppled.
